


Footnotes in History

by Tilperiel



Series: Silver & Gold [12]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Age, Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tilperiel/pseuds/Tilperiel
Summary: Personal pain doesn't need recording in history books.Written for day six of Gondolin week





	Footnotes in History

**Author's Note:**

> In which Voronwë is Glorfindel's nephew.

“Days tend to have a fluid quality to them in the Havens of Sirion, especially now that the hive of activity has died down. It was a good thing, to have so much to do when we arrived. After the long trek from the wreckage of our home those of us who survived The Fall, as it’s been taken to being called, have been so bowed and bent by the weight of our grief that having busy work has helped keep minds occupied as well as hands. 

“The Fall. As if it simply crumbled under a weight, or slipped sideways one night into the plains below. It hardly does it justice, but I suppose calling it The Complete and Utter Bloody Destruction doesn’t help much with the healing process. Then again, as Rog would have said, best to call a spade a spade.

“I’m sure there are plenty of others who’ve already given you all of the grizzly and horrifying details, so forgive me if I decline to add to the list. I like to think I’m good at looking ahead and being able to move on, something of a family trait, I believe. I know my mother’s doing her best to channel that now, although I fear for how much longer she can manage. She’s a strong woman and I hope she makes it through, but I wouldn’t blame her for leaving to join my father. And Grandmother. And Uncles. And everyone else…

“Sorry. I promised not to make this yet another tale of misery, but I’ve had rather a lot on my plate.”

Voronwë had fared no better than anyone else, although he hadn’t had the luxury of being able to show it. He’d managed to keep his head held high and mostly not to crack; focussing his efforts on helping those who were less fortunate than himself. 

Pengolodh inclined his head but made no comment. 

As a scribe and historian, he took his business very seriously and simply put into words the tales of others; although he had been accused of favouritism towards the Noldor thus far. 

He paid such criticism no heed however, for what other stories could he tell other than those of the people he was with? He’d already written most of Voronwë’s tale years ago, but felt obliged to find him again and finish it off before he lost the chance. 

A soft knock on the door and Voronwë stirred from where he was sat, slowly rolling his shoulders out and turning his head from side to side, stiffness having settled in. How long he’d been in the same position, he couldn’t say, but a long time was a good enough answer. He glanced at Pengolodh who shrugged and placed his quill back down into its holder and proceeded to blot his parchment.

“Come in,” Voronwë called and a younger elf entered. One he knew from the Golden Flower. Most of them still kept their allegiances but with so few left it was really just for show. 

“My lord,” she bowed, “Lord Tuor asks if you’re joining them this evening.”

Voronwë pressed his lips together and nodded shortly. “Tell him I’ll be there soon. Thank you.”

She bowed again and left and there was a beat of silence, Voronwë looking haunted towards the closed door.

“Your people look to you for leadership. You are not inclined to take up the post,” Pengolodh said. A statement, not a question.

“They’re not my people. Glorfindel’s gone.” He looked at Pengolodh but the loremaster said nothing. 

Voronwë didn’t explain himself, he didn’t think that those kind of personal thoughts deserved a place in the annals of history. 

He didn’t want to lead anyone. He didn’t want the title that was being thrust upon him, or would be, if he accepted it. He didn’t think any of them should, not really. Not anymore. At least, not here. Not when they were a rag-tag bunch of refugees from two separate kingdoms, where trying to come to terms with what they’d lived through was enough. Aiming to impose Noldorin order wasn’t ever going to help. 

He’d made up his mind to leave as soon as he had a chance and before that, he needed to be alone. He was already building himself a small house, away from the rest.

Voronwë rose and Pengolodh took that as his cue to leave. Gathering his papers and shutting the lid to his quill and ink, he tucked them under his arm and waited for the dismissal.

“When would you like to return?” Voronwë asked.

“Oh, I think I have everything I need,” Pengolodh said serenely and offered him a kind smile, “good evening my lord. May the stars shine bright upon your journeys.”

* * *

Many years later Pengolodh sat late into the evening in his study. Most of his belongings were packed and they prepared to depart, but he needed to record things whilst they were still fresh in the mind, no matter how difficult it was. 

He scratched out yet another attempt and sighed, pulling clean parchment before him and once more dipped his nib to the inkwell. He hesitated then made a decision. 

Sometimes he might be accused of his writings being bereft of emotion, but sometimes it was a kindness to leave out the details.

_…With Voronwë he set sail in Vingilótë once more in search of Elwing and Valinor. 1_

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Adapted from J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien (ed.), The Shaping of Middle-earth, "III. The Quenta: [Section] 17"


End file.
